


engravings

by starfishing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishing/pseuds/starfishing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there are things people say that stay with you, like letters engraved in stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	engravings

A coach leads a busy life.

That's what he tells himself, anyway, when he finally realizes what he's been overlooking. It's a flimsy excuse, and not enough to stem the flow of his immense disappointment in himself. 

Because that's his _job_ , as a coach, as a teacher — to notice.

So the day he overhears the Lahey kid telling someone he got this shiner during the lacrosse game, Bobby feels like he could kick himself in the ear. 

He assumed the kid fought — not that he looked like a troublemaker, but sometimes it's the quiet ones with the tempers. But he knows, he _knows_ those bruises didn't happen on the field. They show up like clockwork after every game, and it's not hard to figure out where they're coming from.

Ages ago, Coach Lahey was a decent man. Bobby can't put his finger on when that stopped being a thing, but he's been steering clear of that guy and his thin, pleasant veneer for a while now. He never stopped to think what might be hiding behind it, and now he wishes like hell that he had.

He tries to talk to the boy — Isaac, he remembers one afternoon, watching him watch the team from the bench — but he's a closed book, a forced smile, a shadowed glance. There's nothing given away, nothing to grab onto to try to pull him out into the light. He's just reassurances and short answers, and Bobby's left grasping for solutions.

What can you do for a kid who won't help himself? He talks to the administration, and they talk to Isaac, too, but they must get the same answers, because 'there's nothing [they] can do.' Bobby dents a locker. They don't reprimand him. They're probably as frustrated as he is.

And frustrated, pained, he's at a loss for finesse when he asks Isaac for the last time. He's the last one here, pulling a shirt on gingerly over fresh bruises, and the sight of such practiced, painstaking care is more than Bobby can stand. 

"Why don't you turn his ass in?"

Isaac's face goes white in the locker room lights. There's a silence that rings between the concrete walls. Bobby's sure he's going to get another flat denial, a claim of ignorance, but the kid surprises him. He says something new, something that will stick with Bobby Finstock for the rest of his life.

"It's not his fault," he says, wavering. "It's mine."

He's no expert on raising kids — might never have any of his own, since he can't seem to hold onto a woman — but he's absolutely fucking certain that Isaac is wrong, and that any man who makes his son feel like his shortcomings deserve a beating ought not to have any.

More than anything, he wants to take Isaac out of there, somewhere safe. A police station, or even Bobby's house. He once sat up all night with a shotgun to ward off his sister's drunk boyfriend, and he doesn't even like his sister. He could do it again for a kid like Isaac. But he knows Isaac won't go, and he has to watch the kid walk out, shouldering his bag with a wince.

How can you help someone who doesn't think they deserve help?

It comes to him in the game's riotous aftermath, as he spots Coach Lahey bringing a firm, deceptively fatherly hand down on Isaac's shoulder. He watches Isaac flinch and smile, and he crosses the field.

He eases his own hand onto Isaac's back, gentler than he's ever been, and looks into terrified eyes. With the biggest grin he can muster, he says, "You did good out there, Isaac. Really showed 'em how to play. Keep it up, you'll be first line next season."

And the kid's throat works and his eyes get brighter, and for four uneasy seconds, Bobby thinks he might cry. Instead, he says, voice tight, three words that Bobby Finstock will remember for the rest of his life.

"Thank you, Coach."


End file.
